


Sucker's Game

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Closeted Character, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A while ago, <a href="http://silencingthedrums.tumblr.com/">silencingthedrums</a> mentioned the awesome idea of a Bruce/Dick prohibition AU, and this is … not that, exactly. But have a 1910s AU where Dick is a downtrodden but cheeky boy prostitute, and Bruce is a noble(ish) gumshoe who’s also secretly a deeply repressed virgin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sucker's Game

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Dick is around 18, but past underage sexual abuse is heavily implied. Mentions of sexual violence, sexist slurs. It’s also kinda maudlin, but I’m totally gonna blame that on the era XD
> 
>  **Notes:** It’s set somewhere in the 1910s or early 1920s, but I didn’t specify ‘cause I suck at historical accuracy something fierce. I also re-named Mr Haly “Haley” on purpose, because the actual Haly would never sell Dick into prostitution, so I had to use his evil doppelganger. And I wanted this to be sexier, but Bruce was being too decent. Stupid Bruce.

Dick Grayson isn’t stupid. He knows he’s not, even though they tell him that he is all the time, with their  _this is all you’re good for_  and  _you’ll never make it anywhere else_  and  _who’d even take you, anyway_. He knows they only say that because they want to keep him in line. Because he’s good business. He realizes that, just like he realizes that he’s never gonna work off that obscure  _debt_  like he was supposed to when Haley volunteered him to the Domino gang. He’s not even sure anymore if there ever even  _was_  a debt. Those are big words when you’re small and frightened and recently orphaned. It’s a sucker’s game. The circus has never returned to Gotham, no-one’s ever come back for him, and he’s not stupid. He knows what it means.

 

He also knows they have a point when they say these things about him; the outside world is unlikely to receive him kindly, that’s probably true. Not only has he earned his keep on his back (or … sitting down) for years now – more years than his age would make you think – he has his own set of nude postcards out, too, and since that associate from the West came around with that movie camera, he’d also been in a porn. Sure, it’s all happened in the back rooms of the gentleman’s club, and nobody is supposed to know and all that, but still. He’d done filthy things, and he’d shown his face while he did them, and it feels like there’s an invisible  _mark_  on him that won’t wash off. The decent people, they’d _know_. Sometimes he thinks of the clean, happy faces of those families he’d entertained under the big top, fathers, mothers, children, and couples in love, and how they’d cheered for him, and how they’d turn away in shock and disgust if they saw him  _entertaining_  now. They’d  _know_ , and he can’t be one of them. On the other hand, he hasn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t a crook, a john, a cop or a barmaid in  _years_ , so he can’t really test his theory.

He hasn’t given up, however. He doesn’t believe he’s worthless. It’s not how he’s been raised. His parents hadn’t thought he was worthless, so he won’t, either. That’s why he hasn’t touched the booze outside the few times he’d been made to, even though it makes things hurt less, and there’d been times where he’d been hella tempted. That’s why he’s never started with the cigarettes. Because he knows, he has a body that can bounce and leap and soar through the air, and one day, he wants to do all that again. Others can try to take that away from him, but he’s not gonna take it away from himself.

And that’s why, as he’s leaning against the counter all dolled-up, looking at that patron who’s caught his eye, he’s sucking on a bright red lollipop instead of a cigarette. He’s spent his afternoon with three gentlemen from the Chicago outfit who treated him like their own personal dairy cow, and he’s hurting and dried-up and sore, but he’s still on the clock, so. He’s in a mood to find someone who’ll worship him, and he’s spotted the customer he knows will give that to him. He’s tall, quiet, and good-looking, as far as Dick can tell with the mask he’s wearing (the black domino that all the patrons wear in here), and he always sits all the way in the back, as if he hopes nobody’ll notice him. Heh, perhaps he should try being a little less handsome, then. He’s come around since the beginning of the week, always looking, never touching, and even though he’s never spoken to Dick, he  _has_  been giving him the eye, and Dick knows he is  _sprung_. Sure, there’s always a chance that he’s a sadist or a creep (he does act a  _little_  bit like a creep, Dick thinks), but there’s something about him that makes him think he’s gentle. Dick has been giving him come hither-looks all week, sucking on his candy, but he’s still not coming over. Dick knows why, though.

He’s got half a mind to do something about it when he feels hot, gin-laced breath grazing his neck, and a pair of coarse hands digging into his arms.

He shivers, reacting to the familiar promise of violence like a well-trained pet. He meekly plops the candy out of his mouth to ask, “What is it, Daddy?”

"Lower your damn voice," Sal Maroni hisses in his ear, even though Dick hasn’t even raised it. He feels stubble scratch across his skin as the older man nods at the table in the back. "See that man over there," he growls, as if Dick hadn’t been looking dreamily at that man for the past ten minutes, "He’s shady."

Dick fights the desire to roll his eyes and say,  _Ya think?_

"I think he’s cute," he chirps instead,  _without_  rolling his eyes, giving his lollipop a quick flick with his tongue.

His boss scoffs. “Oh he’s  _cute_ , all right. Comes in here, takes up space all night, never buys a show, never boys a room, never buys a  _boy_ , turns up his nose at the merchandise like he’s  _better_  than us. I don’t like it.”

Dick wants to turn around and cock his brow at the big boss man, but of course he doesn’t. So, Sal  _hasn’t_  figured out that the handsome stranger is a private eye yet, okay. Makes sense; Sal Maroni is big and mean and when he bends you over his desk in what’s supposed to be your break and takes you without preparation, it can almost make you cry, but he’s  _not_  the brightest. Dick’s not gonna tell him, then.

It’s ridiculous. Dick spends half his day with his legs over his head, and  _he’s_ noticed a while ago. The stranger’s eyes are too sharp for someone who’s only casually overseeing the bar he’s drinking in. His manner’s a little too reserved. There’s also the fact that he keeps ordering the hard drinks, and they reliably disappear every night, but he never really seems drunk when he leaves. And he’s not police, and he’s not a fed. Dick has orally serviced enough members of law enforcement to be familiar with those types. That man doesn’t have the dogged, stilted manner of a government employee. There’s something … different about him, something more refined. Like a detective from a book. It makes him excited. He doesn’t know why this guy is staking the place out, but somehow, he doesn’t want Sal to find him out, either.

"He buys drinks though, and Marie’s said he tips big," he pipes up. "So that’s good, right?"

"You dumb cunt," his employer snarls back. "He can buy  _drinks_  anywhere in town.”

Despite the prohibition and all, that’s entirely true. The insult rolls right off Dick’s back, since he’s used to it.

"But he doesn’t, he comes  _here_. The only reason guys come here is the  _specials_. That’s how we earn our  _money_ , sweetheart. But all he keeps doin’ is sit in his little corner, downin’ my whisky.” Sal snorts. “So either he’s got a massive stick up his ass,  _or_  he’s up to something.”

Dick looks over again. Sal really isn’t good at this. That fella obviously has a massive stick up his butt,  _and_  is up to something.

He shrugs. “Maybe he’s living nearby,” he quips, which earns him a smack on the rear. He flinches; he’s not squeamish, but after the day he’s been having, it hurts more than it should.

"Don’t sass me. Get your sweet ass over there, get him to spend more, or find out what he wants, or both. Move."

Dick bites his lip to stop himself from grinning. It’s one of the few times he’s being ordered to do something he was gonna do, anyway.

"Sure thing, Daddy," he pipes, feigning a small pout. "Whatever you say."

The stranger has seen them talk. Of course he’s seen them talk. First, he’s sharp, and second, Maroni is about as smooth as a garbage truck backing out of an alley when he wants something. Still, the man pretends he’s got no clue, and he also pretends he’s surprised when Dick comes strolling over, swaying his hips. He looks pretty convincing, but Dick knows better.

Anyway, he can be convincing, too.

"Good ev’nin’, Mister." He plays coy with him, standing there with a bashful smile and his hip out like a shy teenager. "Mind if I sit?"

The stranger still makes like he hasn’t seen it coming, but he looks up at him with his earnest blue eyes behind the mask, and when he does, Dick feels something _tickling_. Something’s in the air, like it’s suddenly electric. When he laughs shyly and brushes the dark hair out of his face, it’s not ‘cause he’s pretending.

"No." His voice is a full, deep baritone. Dick has heard it before, when he’d ordered. The man gestures at the chair across from him. "Please."

Dick lowers himself onto the chair – wincing a little because he’s in no mood to sit, really, and it’s not lost on the patron – places his hands in his lap, and looks as cute as possible for starters.

He plops the lollipop from his mouth again, and plays with it. “I’m Dick,” he introduces himself.

"I know," the man volunteers at once, then looks embarrassed. But it happens a little too smoothly, and Dick realizes that he plays coy with  _him_ , too, which is pretty interesting. He crosses his long, lean legs, gets a little more comfortable. It’s strange; they haven’t talked before, but with all those stolen glances going around all week, it doesn’t feel as if they’re meeting for the first time.

He doesn’t ask him for his name. No-one here ever gives their name. They’re all ‘Mister’ to him.

The air is thick with smoke. A lazy blues tune is playing in the background. Over at the bar, Sal Maroni is doing a horrible job of pretending he’s not watching, and they both know it.

Dick tilts his head, batting his eyelashes. “I’ve had my eyes on you,” he confesses sweetly, giving him a look like he’s been pining for whatever he’s got in his dark slacks for days. He could do that with anyone, but it’s not too hard right now. “You seem shy. I like that in a man.”

"Really." The stranger reaches for his glass.

His movements are reserved, but he has a calm about him that Dick likes, a calm that says he’s not gonna pounce on him or suddenly say something cruel. Not that it puts him completely at ease; that kind of thing can go South pretty fast.

"It seems to me that the quiet ones are often the worst ones," the man says, as if he can read Dick’s mind. "At least in my experience."

"Not if you know how to pick ‘em," Dick tells him with a cocky smile. He does know how to pick ‘em, not that it matters, ‘cause he doesn’t  _get_  to pick ‘em. If some shady character walks in and pays to “party” with him by strapping him down and whispering  _I’m gonna fuck you to death_  in his ear while he screws him for an hour, then that’s what’s going to happen. But at least he usually knows, going in.

The curt smile the man gives him seems a little sad, as if he knows that, too. Dick isn’t sure how to feel about that.

"The worst ones are the worst ones, ya never know," he says matter-of-factly. "But I don’t think you’re one of ‘em, Mister."

"That’s … presumptuous," his patron replies. "You must think I’m easy to read –"

He’s about to put down his glass, when Dick uses the moment to touch his arm and lean over. He smiles. He knows that his breath smells like cherries. “By the by, if you want people to think you’re actually boozin’,” he whispers to him, “You gotta act more drunk when you leave. Got it?”

He feels a brief jolt run through the man’s massive frame, and it’s not ‘cause he knows he’s been figured out. He sucks in his breath, sharply, and Dick knows, at once, that he hasn’t been mistaken. This fella wants him, boy, does he ever want him. He wants him so bad his whole body is briefly trembling in his fancy suit. It’s practically wafting off of him, hot and fragrant, despite the expensive cologne he’s wearing. But he doesn’t grope him, doesn’t pull him close, and his voice is all measured when he whispers back: “… I thought that’s what I was doing. Thanks.”

Dick nods. They part again, leaning back in their chairs, but Dick can feel the man’s eyes lingering on his face, intrigued, and sorta … wistful? He’s an odd duck. But he’s not off-putting.

That moment has electrified them both, and kills the conversation for a moment as they look at each other. Dick feels Sal’s eyes burning holes into his back, and clears his throat.

"Yeah,  _I_  don’t like booze,” he says inconspicuously, with an innocent shrug. “Can’t help it. Don’t like the taste.”

"Can I buy you a ginger ale?" The stranger, who’s obviously stared at him hard enough to know his drink, offers him.

Dick decides to make a move. Truth is, he wants to keep talking to him, but he doesn’t want to pretend-talk in a smoky room full of gangsters, half of which have been inside him , with Sal staring daggers at them. He leans over again, emboldened by the man’s reaction when he’d first touched him.

"You can buy me a room," he purrs, "And we can have some fun."

The first thing he sees is a flash of  _greed_  crossing the man’s refined features. But then his jaw stiffens, his entire body follows, and he comes out looking all reserved, and Dick thinks he’s scared him off. His eyes are still on Dick, though, and they’re anything but dismissive.

Finally, he says, in a low voice, “Your employer has taken note.”

"Yep."

"If I don’t go with you, it’ll get you in trouble."

"Probably, yeah."

There seems to be a struggle going on in the stranger for a moment. It’s not a long moment. Then, he stands up – Dick’s seen him standing before, but it still floors him how tall he is – and offers his hand to him.

"Then let’s go."

He puts a big, warm hand on Dick’s waist and strokes him a little awkwardly as they go to rent a room. He probably does it so he’ll look more like a client would, though Dick thinks he likes it a little bit. But when he notices him wincing because of the large bruise he has there, he puts his hand down again. Dick pretends not to see the eager nod Sal gives him as he leads his catch upstairs. Best horse in the stable and all that, yeah, yeah.

He goes the extra mile, pulls him into the room with a playful giggle for all the bulky bodyguards strewn about to enjoy, and throws his arms around his broad shoulders before the door even closes.

As soon as it’s closed, the action stops dead.

The tall man freezes in his arms mid-embrace, and it makes Dick freeze up, too. They’re close enough for the man to smell his cherry-flavored breath, and close enough for Dick to hear how fast he’s breathing. Dick watches him with large, curious eyes. He can feel how much he wants to  _do_  something, from the way he’s gazing into his eyes like he’s gonna fall over and his heart is drumming in his chest, and it seems like they’re already halfway there, but nothing’s happening.

He could’ve gotten that kiss, at least. Dick would’ve given it to him, even if they were only pretending. He wouldn’t have minded.

In the end, the man says, “You. You can let go of me now.”

Dick does. Eh, his loss.

"Thank you," the man says quietly, and it isn’t clear what he’s thanking him for, playing along with his charade, or relieving him from the temptation.

It’s  _so_  odd. Coming in here ‘cause you like boys, that makes sense. Coming in here ‘cause you wanna sniff the place out, sure. But coming here liking boys  _and_ wanting to sniff around? Seems like a recipe for disaster.

They’ve bought the room for half an hour, so they’ll have to stay in here for that long, too. Dick wonders what’s on this strange guy’s mind. He’s obviously ashamed of what he’s feeling, so he can’t rule out completely that he’s some kind of freak who’ll suddenly flip on him and try to bash his head in. He’s prepared for things like that, however. Dick isn’t helpless. He could even kick Sal’s butt, he knows, if that wouldn’t get him gunned down on the spot.

This man looks stronger than even Sal, though.

"So," Dick says cautiously. "Wanna play slapsies, or something?"

The man has composed himself in the meantime, now that Dick isn’t hanging from his neck anymore. “Actually, Dick,” he says, deep voice still low, “I want to know - “

"You shouldn’t do this."

Dick bites his lip. He doesn’t even know why he says that, or why he’d said that bit with the booze back downstairs. It’s not his business. It’s not his business to get into other people’s business, at all. And this guy seems big and strong and not at all like he needs help, but he also seems so damn  _decent_  and Dick knows that’s always bad news, and somehow, he doesn’t want something bad to happen to him.

The man looks at him all calm and determined, and Dick thinks for the first time that he could be more than a flustered Pinkerton who seems sorta nice.

"I shouldn’t do what," he inquires, like he already knows.

"All of this?" Dick flaps his arms in a vague manner. "Waltzing in here, snooping around, asking me questions, pissing off Sal." He gives him a pleading look. "I mean, I  _know_  he’s as dumb as a sack of bricks, but he’s got a .38 on his ankle, ya know.”

"And a colt in his drawer and a Browning behind the bar," the man adds quietly. "And the guards come with a shotgun each. I know. That’s why I hadn’t approached you yet. I was interested to see how much firepower this place is packing."

"Why would you," Dick frowns. " _A-approach_  me.” He looks the man up and down, and can’t keep a  knowing smile to himself. “I mean. Apart from the obvious.”

He stirs when the tall stranger steps in closer again. He seems to brace himself, then puts his arm on Dick’s, and leans down to him in a way that makes their faces almost touch. Dick feels a nervous surge of heat shoot through his body, but then he realizes that the man only wants to whisper to him again.

"Because you don’t want to be here," he mutters, "And you shouldn’t be here. Neither should any of the other kids they keep here. And I’m looking to change that."

It’s hogwash, it’s completely crazy. Yet he sounds so firm as if he actually believes it. Dick brushes his hand off, and takes a step back as if the man was toxic.

Oh, he’s one of  _those_. He hates those the most. The  _saviors_  are the worst, even more so when they buy their own nonsense. They don’t even seem to understand how vile it is to say those things to them. And when they make  _you_  buy it, that’s doubly worse. Because if he’s learned one thing from his breakout attempts that have gotten him chained to the heater in the basement for days, it’s that hope is poison.

"You sick bastard," he says flatly.

The man obviously isn’t prepared for that, which mean he’s not prepared for  _any_ of this. Who does he think he is?!

"Dick, I’m not lying," he says, as calmly as he can, "I swear -"

"Ya know, if you want a tumble with me and feel better about yourself after, maybe you  _should_  take up drinkin’,” Dick hisses, still quietly enough for the guards not to hear, because for some stupid reason, he  _still_  doesn’t want this guy to get beaten up.

"I know how this must sound –"

"Oh, you  _do_?!”

"But I have means. I have a plan. All I want is –"

Dick takes a step forward, grabs his face, and kisses him.

A couple minutes ago, he would’ve kissed him for fun, no lie. But now he does it because he wants him to show himself again, like he’d done whenever else he’d touched him, he wants him to drop whatever he’s doing, and reveal himself for the classless bastard he is. He gives him the full deal, lips, teeth, tongue, while pressing his body against him, that body he’s been  _ogling_  for a week, thinking who-knows-what about him falling into his arms or something.

The man acts like he’s never been kissed before. Despite Dick’s hot, probing tongue, his lips stay as firmly closed as a nun’s thighs, and he hears him mumble something that sounds like “ _Don’t-_ " … before his brain seems to shut down, like Dick has expected, and he puts his arms around his hips to pull him in.

"We both know what you  _want_ ,” Dick mumbles, giving up his attempts to enter his mouth and sliding a hand down between his legs instead. His eyes fly open, and for a moment he’s almost distracted by the sheer length and girth of that _thing_. The man isn’t armed, but he’s still packing heat, obviously. Dick hears his tall stranger groan, and then he almost thinks he feels his dormant snake twitch under his fingers, coming alive under the touch.

"You’re hiding a big damn _rod_  down there, don’t you,” he teases him with a hard smile, in case this man thinks he’s some  _angel_  who needs saving, “You sure you don’t just want to give me a long, hard  _beating_  with i -“

"…no," the man finally gasps, even though that’s obviously untrue. He lets go of his hips, shakes him off with a surprisingly gentle shove. They both stare at each other, panting. The man’s obviously deeply ashamed about what has happened, but Dick can still see the lust in his eyes. His eyes are pretty, and there’s something wild and desperate in them, and he finds, to his own disgust, that he’d still let him screw him. He must be sick. Sicker than usual. He wipes his mouth.

They both stay silent until tempers have cooled down. Then, the stranger mutters, “Forgive me. I did it all wrong.”

He seems to be scolding himself, and there’s something so cornily sincere in it that Dick wants to believe him for a moment. He scoffs instead. “You can say that again.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

The man makes to approach him again, with a fairly agonized look on his face. “May I …”

Dick rolls his eyes, and gives up. “Whatever, man. It’s your time, you’ve paid for it.”

He puts his hands on Dick’s shoulders, and there’s nothing lewd about it. He gazes down at him, very earnestly so, and all Dick can do is stubbornly stare past his eyes so he won’t fall for him again.

"Listen," he says, again in a whisper. "You haven’t been forgotten. They don’t tell you this, but there’s people still looking for you. There’s still a reward out for whoever finds you."

"And you want the reward."

"…no." The man seems genuinely confused by the implication that he might want money. And this time, Dick buys it. This man probably wants many things; but he’s not hankering for cash.

He feels him lean in close to his ear again, and his warm, nice-smelling breath grazes his face as he talks. “I want to put the people who took you, and the others, behind bars. I want to get all of them. I don’t expect you to believe me. I’d like you to aid me, but it’d be your risk, so it’d also be your choice. But I’ve promised myself that I’d take them down, and I will keep coming back until I do.”

It gives Dick a little shudder. He hears himself whisper back, “What makes you think I won’t squeal on you?”

The man doesn’t hesitate. “Because you may not trust me, but you  _hate_  him.”

Dick closes his eyes, swallows, nods. He isn’t sure what to think. The man is right; he  _doesn’t_  trust him. And even if he did … he’s seen what happens to people who cross the Maroni family. You could visit all of them in either the ER or the cemetery. That man in front of him would soon learn that, too. But he does not seem scared, at all. He seems more scared of Dick touching him than he is of all the firearms in the club.

And in the end … spending half an hour every night with this weirdo, without having to take his clothes off, without having to spread himself out on the bed, no beatings, no cigarette butts, no nothing?

It’s not the  _worst_ deal he’s ever made.

"If you go down for this, you go down alone, so we’re clear," Dick tells him, and he feels the man’s clean-shaven face brush against his as he slowly nods. And he still feels the heat simmering underneath his exquisite clothes, too.

"And if it turns out you’re lying to me, I will … I will  _personally_  cut off your balls.” His own words give him pause. He’s never committed an act of cruelty against another person, and he has no desire to. But – “I swear I will do it,” he says firmly.

He almost thinks he can feel him smile. “If I lied to you,” he replies, “You’d be entitled to them.”

"Right." Despite the danger – or perhaps  _because_  of the danger – Dick can’t help a daring grin, and a last foray. “So, do I drop to my knees and blow you now, or …”

"Ah," that makes the stranger retreat again. The faint glint in his eyes is almost charming. "It seems our time is nearly up," he says, not addressing the offer at all. "But I will be seeing you. It might be a couple of days, this time, but trust that I’ll return."

He is  _such_  an odd duck.

"Hey," Dick looks at his feet. It’s been a long time since he’s asked someone this. "What’s your … I mean, what do I call you? I mean, can I call you somethin’?"

The man thinks about that for a moment, stern brow furrowing. Then, he simply says, “You can call me B.”

“ _Bee?_ ”

"Yes. B."

"…well, fine."

It’s not as if that’s weirder than the rest.

Before he goes, the man who calls himself Bee turns around to take a look at him, and Dick bites down on his lip not to laugh, because he probably tries to look all re-assuring and determined, which he does – but what he  _actually_  looks like is _really_  hung up on him, and that’s funny.

Dick ruffles up his hair and clothes, and makes sure that he looks like he’s been worked over good as he hangs in the doorframe to tell him good-bye. And when he pipes, “Come again, Mister!”, he  _kinda_  means it for a change.

"Well," Sal asks him later, as they’re closing up and Dick is on his lap, lighting his cigar. "What about that guy, eh?"

Dick giggles with a lazy wave of his hand. “Oh, he’s just a big dope,” he says, and he’s not even sure if that isn’t true. “Don’t worry about him. He’s nothing special.” He pauses, and then smirks to himself, before breaking out his best saucy smile. “All I can say is, he’s got a big ol’ cock, and once you get him goin’, he really knows what to do with it.”

Sal grunts out a laugh, giving his rear a little pat, which means he’s satisfied with his report.

"I’m telling ya, Daddy," Dick says, looking up at him with his eyelashes all a-flutter, and chooses his words wisely, "He’s easily the  _second_  best I’ve ever had.”


End file.
